


Dwarf Magic

by lingering_nomad



Series: From the Ashes [4]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Supportive Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-03-01 15:17:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2777948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lingering_nomad/pseuds/lingering_nomad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A entire squadron of templars lies dead, killed on Chantry grounds. Fenris is worried, but Kirkwall's favourite storyteller sets his mind at ease.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dwarf Magic

**Author's Note:**

> **Topography:** “spoken dialogue,” “ _flashback dialogue_ ,” ‘ _thoughts_ ,’ _emphasis_  
>  **A/N:** Set during the time-lapse in ‘Talk is Cheap,’ because if anyone could do with a bit of ‘mothering’ from the Paragon of Chest Hair, it’s Hawke's favourite elf.

“Then, you do not believe what happened in the Chantry is cause for concern?” the elf asked, one peridot-green eye peering through a parting in silvery-white bangs in dire need of a trim.

The wording was frank, the tone cautious: hallmarks of a man more accustomed to fighting and fleeing than speaking his mind.

Varric linked his fingers and leaned back in his human-sized high back, watching those keen green eyes watch him. Hawke’s estimate of the runaway’s age had settled the number on twenty-two. Barely an adult by most standards, though it might well be less given the hardships the ex-slave had hinted at enduring.

He really was pretty, though. And not ‘ _for a man_ ,’ either. This kid? He had the kind of looks that inspired. Bards to song, writers to prose, artists to immortalise. Madmen to depravity…

Edwina came bustling into the suite, then. The meal Varric had ordered was distributed with maximum brusqueness as usual and, for once, he found himself grateful for the waitress’ intrusive demeanour. If nothing else, it distracted him from the visions conjured by his overactive imagination and diverted his visitor’s attention from the grimace he couldn’t quite keep off his face.

Yeah, the elf was a looker, alright. But Hawke wasn’t the sort to risk life and limb, least of all his baby brother’s, over a set of big green eyes and bow-shaped lips. An apostate the human might be, but he was surprisingly dedicated to the Chantry’s ‘serve-not-rule’ spiel. Man had something of a zero-tolerance policy against any mages who took an opposite stance and with Fenris’ angry account of bondage in the Imperium, thinly veiling the torrent anguish that coursed underneath, Varric understood why Hawke had put their profit margin aside to help the boy.

In hindsight, he was glad for the bounty hunter’s decision to recruit the kid as well, even if several of his reservations had yet to be appeased. For one thing, alliances based on loyalty and trust as opposed to intimidation and fear, were obviously foreign to the young vinter’s experience. Still, his effort to learn (if Varric was reading him right and he was rarely wrong on these counts) _was_ heartening.

“If you’re asking if I’m losing sleep over it, then the answer is ‘no,’” he replied, reaching for his goblet.

He got a glower in response, but on Fenris’ features that could well be considered a neutral expression. “Then you see nothing wrong with such a course of action?” the kid pressed, tone incredulous, though slanting more toward curious than accusatory.

Deciding to take it as a positive sign, Varric scanned the doorway for eavesdroppers. Spotting none, he leaned across the corner of the table, voice low so as not carry an inch past his guest’s tapered ears. “Look Spikey, I know your experience with… _Fereldans_ hasn’t been altogether endearing—” there were some risks even _he_ didn’t take and using the ‘m-word’ in conjunction with the name of his friend and would-be co-investor was near the top of the list “—but Hawke’s no mad dog and the way he tells it, those bastards destroyed a man’s mind for writing a letter to their boss. Not like he could call it a misunderstanding and walk away, either. I hate to break it to you, Elf, but Hawke’s kind aren’t the only people in Thedas with a talent for tyranny.”

Fenris seemed to consider this. “Perhaps not,” he conceded after a beat. “But power _does_ have a tendency to corrupt. Without fail in my experience, and… _Fereldans_ have power in spades.”

Varric shrugged and leaned back, busying himself with his food. Breakfast with Bartrand had run late and he hadn’t planned on eating again this soon. It was becoming apparent, however, that his guest wasn’t going to unless he _did_ , and the entire point of ordering stew was to get some nourishment into that wiry frame. Elves as a people were slender by default, but this one’s bones jutted a tad too close to his skin for Varric’s liking.

“It’s all down to ends and means,” he explained, tearing off a piece of slightly stale bread  and dipping it into the sauce. “I have no doubt that this ‘ _master’_ of yours deserves to have his skin peeled off an inch at a time. Judging from what I’ve seen around here, though, Hawke’s kind are about as immune to abuse as the zealots are hesitant to inflict it. Which is to say, not at all. The _real_ question, is whether chaining a guy like Hawke ever really helps to keep men like your master from rising. I think you can work out the answer for yourself.”

The elf nodded at this, visibly stowing the thought away to be mulled over later. He’d started eating to Varric’s relief, even if his table manners did leave the dwarf mildly stunned.

‘ _Impeccable_ ,’ was the word that came to mind.

It was not what Varric had expected from the skinny, skittish runaway, but a moment’s reflection revealed the rashness of the assumption. Fenris wasn’t exactly chatty, but there was refinement and decorum to his speech; scarcer than lyrium this far below the Hightown boundary. A magister’s “ _pet”_ he’d said he was, and a well-trained one at that… _too_ well for the relatively thuggish tasks of a mere ‘guard-dog.’

Another stab of pity lanced through Varric’s guts at the thought, but he shoved it aside. The kid didn’t need anyone’s pity. What he _did_ need, was a chance at something more.

“So, you up for a round of Wicked Grace after lunch?”

Fenris stiffened, spoon halting midway to his mouth. He glanced up and the stark apprehension on his face damn near broke Varric’s heart.

“The card game?” he clarified.

Apprehension turned to hesitance. “I should be going shortly. I’ve imposed on your hospitality too long as it as is.”

“Nonsense!” Varric cried, meaning it. “Your dance routine can wait. Stay. One friendly game. I insist.”

Silence hung between them. The kid shifted in his seat and glanced down at his bowl, pretending to stir, though it wasn’t hard to deduce that the posture had more to do with seeking refuge behind that curtain of snowy hair than blending his food. He took another bite before shrugging, the motion atypically rigid. “I’ve never done so before,” he admitted, voice gruff, “played that is. I do not know how.”

Varric grinned, not surprised so much at the admission as that the elf was willing to make it. “Well then. Guess I’ll just have to teach you.”


End file.
